


With a Little Help From My Friends

by indevan



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indevan/pseuds/indevan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Blight is technically over and that's good enough for Devyn Tabris who lost more than he was willing when saving the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With a Little Help From My Friends

The Alienage is bringing itself back together.  Zevran stops at the gates and stares.  He has to marvel at their spirit, these city elves.  It’s not surprising that a place like this would produce one such as he.  He wears his hair back into a stubby horsetail and is dressed not in his armor but leather trousers and a sleeveless tunic.  His face is now synonymous to ending the Blight and he wants to travel relatively incognito.  At least until he is out of the country.  He is also unarmed...nearly.  He has small knives kept in his boots but he considers that pretty much unarmed.  He doesn’t think that he’ll run into danger in the Alienage but one never knows.

No one seems to notice him, at least.  Everyone is in motion, rebuilding homes and clearing out Darkspawn corpses.  The mood is surprisingly light, he thinks, for the tasks being completed.  Two little children dance happily around a decapitated genlock and then take off down an alley.  He remembers Devyn telling him that in the Alienage, they make joy where they can.  Clearing out the monsters is a community activity.  In a way, Zevran can appreciate it.

He makes his way to the back of the Alienage, where he knew the house was.  He had been in it, after the business with the slavers.  Devyn had lost it on the Arl afterwards when the man said that, despite the tragedy, he was glad that he had something to pin on Loghain.  Alistair had to physically hold him back from tackling him to the ground.  He settled for yelling, “HE PUT MY FATHER IN A CAGE, YOU SODDING BASTARD!  AND YOU’RE HAPPY?!”  It always surprises Zevran how he can be so sweet in his odd, endearing way one moment and then turn into a tiny ball of righteous fury in another.  He supposes that that’s why he likes him.

Dane, Devyn’s Mabari, is lounging outside the door.  When Zevran arrives, the great beast lifts its head and gives a loud, massive yawn before lying back down on his enormous paws.  He notices that the dog’s skeleton caddis is a sinister juxtaposition to his lazy demeanor and chuckles lightly to himself.

He balls a fist and raps it against the door.  Movement inside--shuffling and rustling.  The door opens and there is Devyn’s father.  He looks maybe how Devyn will look in twenty years time.  He has the same pointed little chin, pasty skin, and black hair, though his is starting to gray maybe a little prematurely.  Same slight, bony build.  He holds the door open with one hand and carries a steaming bowl of broth in the other.

“You...are one of his friends.”

Zevran bows extravagantly.

“Zevran Arainai, at your service, messere.”

He looks up and sees a slight smile quirk onto his father’s face and he steps aside to allow him entry.  Zevran enters the house and is surprised not to see Devyn anywhere.  The house has one room and he knows that this is where he is.  That he isn’t there is almost alarming.  Walking forward, he peeks around the corner to where the beds are and--yes, there.  A lump under a threadbare blanket.  The smell of stale ale drifts out from under it.

“I’ve taken the booze,” his father says, coming up behind him. “And have banned his cousins from bringing him any more.”

The lump makes a disgruntled noise and shifts a little.

“Time to eat, Devling.”

His father steps forward and holds out the bowl of soup.  The blanket rises a little and then turns the other way.  It settles down into a similar shape to what it once was.  Devyn’s father sighs and puts the bowl down on a small table next to the bed.  Zevran wishes he could remember the man’s name.

“There’s someone here to see you.”

A grumble from the depths.

“It’s not the Queen.”

Zevran’s confusion must show on his face because Devyn’s father turns to him and begins speaking.

“She has been down here several times in the past few days to try and get Devyn to come to the castle.  She is very persuasive but not enough to get a drunk teenager out of a grieving depression.”

This time when the blanket shifts, it shifts downward and soon Devyn’s head pops out from underneath.  His gaze is bleary and his skin is blotchy.  His nose is red but Zevran doesn’t know if it’s from inebriation or tears.  His short hair stands on end and the scars around his eyes look more prominent than usual.

“Huh?” he croaks out.

He turns to look at Zevran and swallows.

“Heyyyy, Zev.”

He falls down on the pillows and gropes for something on the night table.  His fingers bump the bowl but not enough to spill any of the broth.

“S’where’s my bottle?”

“Gone,” his father replies. “You aren’t drinking anything else, Devling.  You need to eat something.  I made you chicken broth.”

He groans but, to Zevran’s surprise, he takes the bowl into both hands and begins slurping it down.  After one gulp, it comes back up and he vomits straight into the bowl.  His father merely takes it from him and goes towards a small stove burning near the front of the house to get him a fresh bowl.  Zevran takes the opportunity to begin speaking to him.

“Hello, Devyn.  I see you are...”

He lets his voice trail off and gets a harsh snort of a laugh in return.  Devyn sits up in the bed and rubs his eyes.  The motion causes an amulet he is wearing to move and draws Zevran’s eye to it.  The vial of blood from his Joining is gone and replaced by the sun symbol of Andraste.  He first thinks to question it since he knows that Devyn doesn’t believe in the Chantry’s teachings but then he notices the hairline fractures that run all over its surface.

“You took it from--”

He cuts himself off.  He doesn’t want to say it, not with Devyn like this.  The body.  Alistair’s body.  Devyn nods subtly, barely moving his head.  He reaches down to clasp it in one hand.  Zevran shifts his gaze to the night table and sees the curled, dried remains of the rose he gave him.

“Oh, Devyn.” He can’t hide the concern from creeping into his voice.

He bursts into tears then, burying his face in his hands.  His narrow shoulders shake as he lets out loud, wet-sounding sobs.  Zevran sits next to him on the bed and gently begins to rub one hand on his back.  He doesn’t know how to comfort.  Lull into a false sense of security, yes but not comfort.

“It’s all my fault!” he sobs out.

Devyn’s body gives out and he leans into Zevran’s shoulder, still sobbing.

“Alistair made his choice.”

Tearfully, he shakes his head.

“No, I...should have...listened...to her!”

Whatever nonsense he says further is dissolved into another wave of tears.  Zevran doesn’t know what he’s talking about but he thinks it has something to do with Morrigan and her disappearance the night before they left for Denerim.  Devyn slips behind him and falls back onto the bed.  Zevran looks at him for a minute.  The blanket is still over him but pushed further down his bare back.  His hands clench at the pillow and he can see his scarred, bruised knuckles.  There’s teeth marks worrying over his fingers and Zevran wonders if he’s been biting them to try to quiet his tears.

He reclines next to him, wiggles under the blanket.  Wraps his arms around his shoulders that still heave and shake with tears.  Mumbles quieting noises into the back of his neck.  Devyn is still crying but he lets him hold him.  

They lie like that for a long time.  Through the small window in the front of the house, Zevran can see dusk setting in.  He realizes as the shadows grow across the floor more and more steadily that the sound of sobbing has ceased.  He looks down and sees that Devyn has finally gone to sleep.  His breath catches a little--shaky and ragged from being so tear-soaked--but he smiles to himself.  He leans down and kisses his cheek under his lowermost scar.

“Good.  Sleep well, my friend.”

\--

It is three days later when Devyn speaks words that aren’t garbled in tears.  Three days when he says something that doesn’t peter off into nonsensical ramblings.  Zevran has slept with him every night not only because he wishes to comfort him but because there isn’t any other place for him to sleep.  Even if there was, however, he knows that he would be in that bed with that tiny, grieving Warden no matter what.

He is setting the table for breakfast when Devyn rounds the corner.  He almost whirls around and smacks into the wall from how quickly he turns but catches himself at the last moment.

“Devling!” his father exclaims, surprised.  Zevran still doesn’t remember his name. “You’re up!”

Devyn walks into the kitchen, walking purposefully.  There is something balled in the fist of his left hand.  He stops at the table and lifts it up.  He opens his hand and lets it dangle.  The blood inside catches the light coming from the leddas candles burning on the table.

“I’ve made a decision,” he says and his voice sounds cracked and mournful, still.

Zevran watches the small vial spin a little as it dangles from the chord.  Devyn’s hand jerks and he snatches it back up to close his hand around it.

“What decision?” his father asks.

“I’m leaving the Wardens.”

Devyn turns and flings the amulet to the floor.  It shatters, little drops of tainted blood splattering on the worn, wood floor.

“Devyn Andreas!” his father shouts and Zevran waits for him to scold him for being so immature and selfish to leave his life’s purpose. “Clean that up before it stains!”

“Yes, papa.”

Or perhaps not.  Devyn fetches a cloth and gingerly collects the shards of glass into it.  He empties the shards into the hearth.  He stops at a small counter near the stove where a shallow bowl full of water is sitting.  He dips the cloth into it and goes back to scrub up the blood.

“You are leaving the Wardens?” Zevran asks.

Devyn gets up and wrings the cloth out over the fire.  The little droplets of water sizzle as they evaporate against the low, flickering flames.  He then commits the ultimate crime of shrugging.

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t aware that you could.”

He stops and lets the damp cloth unfurl from his fingers.  It is dangerously close to the flames burning in the hearth.  Devyn snaps it back up and turns to place it back on the counter.

“I mean...physically, I am still a Warden.  But I’m not going to be their hero.  I’m not toiling away in the Deep Roads until I die.” His gaze narrows. “I don’t care about Blights or remaining Darkspawn.  Let the Orlesian Wardens handle it.  They’re more experienced, anyhow.”

Zevran sees his father’s shoulders lower and wonders why he isn’t trying to make him see reason.  Then again, he remembers Devyn once telling him that his mother was killed over a decade ago.  He’s all his father has left.  Zevran has never experienced that--familial love--but he can see why his father wouldn’t want him being a Warden.  Even so, as his friend, he feels like he needs to at least make him consider his actions.

“You ended the Blight, my friend.”

Devyn whirls around from the counter, his eyes flashing.

“No!” he snaps. “ _He_ ended the Blight!  He ended the Blight and the Blight _took him away from me!_ ”

He thought that his long quest would have curbed the majority of his volatile temper but Zevran can feel the heat from his glare and knows that it never really left.  He just got better control on it.

“You did lead the charge, though.”

His shoulders lower in an uncanny recreation of how his father’s did a moment ago and his chin inclines slightly.

“You’re right, Zev.  I did lead the charge.”  The anger is gone from his voice but there’s a lingering edge to it.

He exhales slightly in relief, hoping that Devyn will stop this.  He doesn’t particularly want his friend to toil away in the Deep Roads until he dies a premature death but Ferelden may say otherwise and, if he accompanies him, he does not fancy being hunted.  Especially by Wardens.

“That means I don’t owe them anything!” he exclaims brightly.

Zevran clenches his shoulders again.  He reaches into himself and tries to think not about his own self-preservation and how, thinking beyond that, what Devyn says makes sense.

“They will hunt you.”

“They can try.” He gets that dangerous look in his eyes that Zevran saw so often when he was about to do something like punch out an ogre or run up a High Dragon’s back.

“You’re leaving, then.” His father sighs.

Devyn turns to him and gently takes the older man by the shoulders.  When he speaks, his voice is completely different.  Still unnaturally raspy and deep but almost...childish.  The way an only child would speak to their parent, Zevran figures.

“I have to, papa.  If I stay here, I endanger you, Shianni, Soris...everyone.  Most Wardens aren’t like me or Alistair.  They’re ruthless...Riordan, the one who I told you about, said Duncan--remember him?--was soft and he killed a guy for not wanting to partake in the Joining!  The other Wardens would do anything to flush me out and I can’t let them attack here.”

His father smiles and pulls him into a fierce hug.  Devyn doesn’t seem to mind it and hugs him back.

“Will you at least tell me where, my son?”

He shakes his head and says, “I can’t.  Then you’ll have information they can take.  I’ll write you, though.  I’ll write all of you.”

Zevran folds his arms over his chest and smirks a little.

“You do know you are taking me with you, yes?”

Devyn steps back from the embrace and grins.

“Oh?  You don’t mind being hunted by Wardens and possibly Queen Anora?”

Zevran thinks back to his own thoughts moments ago and chuckles at his own hypocrisy.

“If you do not mind being hunted by the Crows.”

Devyn cracks his knuckles. “Let them try.”

He laughs and reaches forward, arm bent and hand up.  Devyn grins and leans forward to clasp Zevran’s hand tightly.

“Then we are off?”

“We’re off.”

Devyn’s father steps between them and carefully takes each of them by the ear.

“Not until after breakfast,” he says in a patient, chastising voice.

“Yes, papa.”

“Yes, serrah Tabris.”

\--

Two cloaked figures run down the narrow streets of Antiva City.  They are both small, but one is much shorter than the other, bringing to mind the image of two siblings trying to escape their parents.  It rained earlier and the streets and rooftops still glisten under the moonlight.  No one pays them mind, they look like children, after all.

The taller of the two ducks into an alley.  The movement looks sudden but a keen eye can see that it’s practiced.  They know where they are going.  The hovel is set back into the recesses of the alley and hard to see behind the veil of trash that piles in front of the door.  They need not move the trash to get in.  The little one slips in, through the door that does not look like a door and the taller one follows.

No one gives them a second glance.  Most dismiss them as orphans looking for shelter anyway.  Those who don’t think them pickpockets and, thus, someone else’s problem.

Inside the hovel, the little one removes his hood.

“Augh!” Devyn whines. “I hate my hair like this!”

He reaches up to tug on the shaggy locks that hang over his forehead and ears and tangle at the base of his neck.

“Give me a knife; I want to cut it.”

Zevran removes his own hood and purses his lips in bemusement.

“I told you, my friend, you have to be disguised somehow.  We cannot hide your scars or your eyes.  You agreed that growing your hair out was the best solution.”

“That was before it actually started growing!  How can you stand having long hair?”

Zevran does not say that Devyn’s hair is hardly “long.”  At most it is shaggy and in need of a trim.  Still, he knows that he can’t stand having his hair past his ears.  Zevran, meanwhile, wears his hair clubbed at the nape of his neck.  It isn’t his preferred style but he figures that his complexly plaited hair is what the Crows are looking for.

Devyn pushes his bangs away from his forehead and scowls and Zevran is vividly reminded of the fact that he only turned eighteen a week ago.

“I don’t see why I can’t cut my hair,” he states. “The Wardens are going to be looking for an elf with facial scars and purple eyes.  It doesn’t matter if I find a mage to magic me blond.”

Zevran smiles and turns to hang his cloak up on an exposed nail.  It wasn’t meant to be a hanger but it’s how he’s been using it since they took up residence in this hovel.

“Because you are whining, I am not going to give you a knife.”

Devyn lets out an aggravated cry.

“You suck, Zev.”

He turns away to take off his own cloak and tosses it onto a chair.  Zevran remembers that during the Blight, he had given up on manners and protocol and seems to have done it again.  When he asked him about it then, Devyn had replied, “No one is telling me to eat my vegetables or pick up my things so I’m not going to.”  He recalls, though, that when Wynne told him to pick up his things, he did without question or complaint.

“I wish Dane were here,” he says not for the first time.

Zevran gives a small laugh.

“Scars and eyes are concealable behind a hood, my friend,” he says, “but a Mabari would be impossible to disguise.”

This is also not the first time Zevran has said that in response to him.  He suspects that for someone who claims that he bears no patriotism for his homeland, Devyn misses Ferelden.  Then again, perhaps he is being paid back for all the times he spoke of Antiva back when they were saving the world.

“Yeah, yeah.” Devyn pushes his hair back away from his face again.

He goes to the small pile of sticks that serves as their oven and drags the spit and pot over to it.

“I’m starving.”

Zevran does not point out that he is always “starving” but knows that it is simply a Warden thing.  He never ate like Alistair did, either, possibly because he is far smaller but he most definitely doesn’t point that out.  Devyn is good most days except when his lover is brought up.  Sometimes, even when he isn’t, Zevran catches him looking at the amulet or at the brittle remains of the rose that he keeps carefully in his pack.

“So what are we going to do?”

Devyn is crouched and rubbing two sticks together to get a fire going.

“What are we going to do?” Zevran repeats.

“Yeah.  I mean, we’re in Antiva.  The Wardens are looking for me but there’s nothing we can really do about that right now.  The Crows are looking for you and...well...let’s just say that there’s a battleaxe in this shack that hasn’t gotten enough use in some time.”

Zevran smiles.

“Have I ever told you that I like the way you think?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t hurt to hear it again.”

Devyn gets the fire started and leans back, proud of himself.  Zevran nearly laughs.  He is still such a city boy.

“What will you do, though, when the Wardens finally track you down?”

He doesn’t answer at first.  Instead, he lifts the spot onto the spit.  When it is dangling above the small fire, Devyn turns to him and gives him a sly grin.

“We’ll do to them what we’re going to do to the Crows.”


End file.
